


Love Of The Sea

by FourCornersHolmes



Series: The Assorted & Collected Misadventures of John H. Watson, RAMC, MD [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, BAMF John, Big Brother Mycroft, Captivity, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Fae & Fairies, He's not Mortal, Hurt Sherlock, I haven't figured out John yet..., Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jim Being Creepy, Jim is a Little Shit, John is a Saint, M/M, Magic, Minor Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft IS the British Government, Not Canon Compliant, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Other, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 02, Protective Mycroft, Selkie Sherlock?, Shapeshifting, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, implied magic, lycanthropy, therianthropy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-31 17:19:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15124223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/FourCornersHolmes
Summary: It's generally acknowledged that if you return a Shapeshifter's coat, you've offered yourself as a suitable mate and you would like them to consider you in turn. What happens AFTER that isn't as widely discussed. This is what happens when a good deed changes (and saves) a life.





	1. Doctor Without Hope

**Author's Note:**

> This weird offering is my Camp NaNo July project, so I'll update sporadically until the end of the month, if at all. I modified a prompt for this, but the idea intrigued me and I kind of ran with it. I'll be doing research into lore as needed, but there might be a few things I don't get quite right. Please be kind in criticism. Advice and suggestions are ALWAYS welcome but not always heeded.  
> ::  
> The prompt that inspired me is at the end of the story.  
> ::  
> I'm basically just playing around with different bits of lore and ideas that came up as I write.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson returns to London after two decades in the Royal Army Medical Corps, where he takes rooms in VA housing and a job wherever he can find work. He finds work at an upscale London restaurant called Quo Vadis as a waiter. One night, during a long shift, he meets an unusual patron. His life is about to get a whole lot more interesting.

* * *

It had already been a long, exhausting day when John Watson got a new table. There was something slightly pathetic about a veteran with twenty years of service in the Army reduced to near homelessness and no job prospects in the field he had the most experience in. Desperate for work and income to bolster his pension, John had taken up a position as a waiter at Quo Vadis in London. A swanky, upscale place on Dean Street with a private member’s club and a clientele that ranged from wealthy  tourists with cash to burn to equally wealthy, if less courteous, locals who had more money than sense and a nasty habit of looking down on you if they thought for a minute you were different from them.  He saw ambassadors and heads of state, government lackeys, doctors, venture capitalists, and rich business types all rubbing elbows with travellers from all corners of the world, often all in one night. Usually, his patrons were polite but demanding, but there were some nights when he just couldn’t please anyone.

So when he got a two-top with a couple on his already-crowded roster, John sighed and looked to see if either of them were club-members. Oh. Yep. Yes, they were.

“Oh, no.” John groaned and rubbed his forehead. “Not him.”

“Sorry, John!” Another server whispered as they passed, her tray was full of glasses. “Saw you got Moriarty.”

“Again.”

“Bad luck for you. Sorry, mate! Buy you a round next time?”

“Hold you to that, Mick.” He squeezed the server’s elbow and smiled at her before slipping around her and making his way upstairs. He took the opportunity to calm himself and brace for what was going to be a very trying, unpleasant evening. Once he was upstairs in the Blue Room, it didn’t take him very long to find the right table, and he groaned under his breath as he recognized Jim Moriarty right away. Slick and neatly-dressed as always, dressed to kill if John really wanted to get technical. He suppressed a shudder and cleared his throat as he approached the isolated corner table, putting on a passably friendly smile.

“Good evening, Mr Moriarty! It’s a pleasure to have you tonight! Can I get you something to start while you go over the menu, sir?” He might not like the prick, but he could be nice.

“Ahh.” The man looked up at him, raking John over with a familiar, uncomfortable gaze, “John! Pleasure’s mine! You know what I like, Johnny Boy!”

“Sir.” He _hated_ that nickname, and he knew Moriarty knew it. “I’ll bring some water for you as well, then?” He bowed a bit and cast a glance at Moriarty’s very handsome companion.

“Thanks, Johnny Boy, you’re a gem!” Moriarty just wiggled his fingers and dismissed John like a disobedient pet or petulant child. Reminding himself that killing patrons was a surefire way to lose your job and did _not_ look good on your record, John went about the business of procuring a bottle of the restaurant’s most expensive wine, double-checking the label to make sure he had the right one, and a basket of fresh, hot bread. He added something to the water, tasteless and colourless, to bolster the nutritional value. He knew that Moriarty’s companion was Fey, and he’d caught a whiff of sea-air. He wasn’t sure exactly _what_ breed of water-fey the tall gent was, but he knew the water would help.

Returning upstairs and collecting his tray from the dumbwaiter, he set down the wine and water on the table, laid out the glasses for each, and set down the bread and plates.

“Would you like me to pour the wine for you, sir?”

“Oh, thank you, Johnny Boy.” Moriarty grinned at him and gestured at the wine. John nodded and carefully poured two glasses of water before he opened the wine. He made it look easy, but he’d been doing it for long enough it was just something he knew how to do. A bit of magic to ease out a stubborn cork and no one was any the wiser. Pouring a bit of wine into one glass, he passed it to Moriarty, who sniffed it and took a sip. John had the man’s entire order memorized, knew what he ordered, when, and how he liked it prepared. While Moriarty sipped at the wine and decided he liked it, John noticed his silent companion had downed both glasses of water and quietly refilled them.

“Thirsty boy, Locket?” Moriarty raised an eyebrow over his wine-glass.

“I’m sorry, sir. A little parched.”

“Would you like me to bring more water, Mr Moriarty?” John held his tray under one arm, tucked against his body as he surveyed the situation.

“That would be lovely, Johnny, thank you very much.”

“Would you like me to take your coats for you?”

“No thanks, Johnny boy. This one’s rather protective of his coat.” Moriarty chuckled, a sour sound to John’s ears, “He’s afraid it’ll get stolen or some nonsense.”

“ _You_ stole it from me.” The man muttered, refusing to look at any of them. “I have good reason to be worried.”

“Oh, stop it, Locket, you’re being ridiculous.” Moriarty waved off the man’s concern, “I gave it back, didn’t I?”

“No worries, Mr Moriarty. Standard to ask.” John shrugged it off, but there was something about this that bothered him. After taking their order for appetizers and entrees, John went to enter it into the computer and tried to convince himself that it was none of his business. While he waited for the order to go through and process, he looked after his other tables and sent notice to the bussers for the tables that had paid and left. One table had stiffed him on the tip, not that he was too surprised, but another table’s gratuity more than made up for it. Quo Vadis didn’t add a service-charge to their bills, so any tips earned went to the servers, and it was basically treated as bonus-pay.

\--

As the night wore, and his other tables cleared out, John was able to spend his time tending to Moriarty and his companion. The man didn’t speak much, but he obviously could. He didn’t make eye-contact with anyone, though John once caught his eye by chance while Moriarty was away from the table taking a phone-call. He knew better than to engage the man, but he so desperately wanted to. Once, he was processing another table’s bill when he was aware of a soft tap on his arm. The scent of sea-water hit him before he heard the man’s voice and he smiled, relaxing a bit.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Where are the gents?”

“Oh, just down…” He trailed off as he looked up and over his shoulder and finally got a proper look at the man’s face. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No, no! It’s…fine.” He exhaled slowly. God, he was gorgeous! John blinked and remembered himself. “You’ve not been here before, I take it?”

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t.”

“I’ll show you the way then, shall I? Last thing I need is Mr Moriarty down my throat because you lost your way and went in the wrong door.” Wondering if he was going mad, John led the tall, quiet fey downstairs and directed him to the gents. In the time the man was in the gents, John had seen to another table and was pocketing the tip-money after running the bill when he was aware of the man’s approach.

“Can you…”

“Of course, sir.”

“Please don’t. I’m not a sir.” The man followed him back upstairs and John wracked his brains trying to figure out what it was that bothered him. It wasn’t the man himself, John was sure of it. It was something about his relationship with Moriarty. For the rest of the evening, he kept an eye on Moriarty’s table. He was just out of view when he heard Moriarty’s voice raised in anger and he went as close as he could without drawing notice.

“You belong to me, William! Do you understand that? I _own_ you!” Moriarty was standing, his companion was seated, and he was practically radiating fury and dominance. John frowned and carefully removed himself. He was downstairs helping stack glasses at the bar when Moriarty appeared.

“Good night, Mr Moriarty!” He called politely.

“Good night, Johnny Boy! You were stellar as always!” Moriarty smiled tightly, his coat over his arm. John noticed he was carrying two, and one was his companions. John didn’t say anything and simply smiled and went to hold the door for Moriarty.

“Did you need anything else, Mr Moriarty?”

“No, thanks, Johnny. My ride’s here!” Moriarty breezed out of the restaurant. John rushed past him to hold the door of the car, giving Moriarty’s driver a look.

“Oh, there was one thing?”

“Yes, sir?” He stood at rest, instinct from all his time in the military.

“Make sure my silly companion finds a way home, will you? I’m afraid he was a bit too stubborn and refused a free ride home with me tonight.”

“Of course, sir, I’ll see him off safely.” John nodded and looked across the car at Moriarty’s driver. “Evening, Moran.”

“Watson.” Sebastian Moran drawled his name, eyes narrowed, “Still working this dump, are you?”

“It pays the bills and keeps me off the streets. I’m too honest.”

“Pity.” Moran snorted and ducked into the car, “Goodnight, Watson!”

“Goodnight.” He waited until the car was out of sight and ran back inside. He charged upstairs and searched for Moriarty’s companion. No sign of him at the table, he couldn’t have gone far. John collected and processed the bill, keeping the tip, bussed the table himself, and went to find Moriarty’s quiet fey companion. He found the man in the gents after some searching, locked in a stall. John had clocked out of his shift and was prepared to leave, he didn’t want to leave the fey alone.

As he entered the gents, he heard soft sobbing, which stifled as soon as he walked in. He paced along the stalls to the one locked and tapped on the door.

“Are you alright?”

“Is he gone?”

“Yes, long gone. Come out of there, I’ll get you a cab.”

“Did he have my coat with him?”

“Yep. I kept my mouth shut.”

“Thank you.” He heard a sniffle and sighed.

“Come on, mate, we’re closed up for the night, you can’t sleep in here.”

“I’m sorry.” The door rattled and the tall fey emerged, eyes hollow and bloodshot. John couldn’t see any visible injury, but he knew the man was shaken. John smiled and guided him to the sinks, carefully washing his face for him.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I was a doctor, it’s in my nature to take care of people.”  He turned the man’s head to inspect for old injuries. There weren’t any that he could see, not right away. John sighed and carefully stroked the soft, smooth skin under his jaw. “You’re scared half to death, aren’t you?”

“I can’t help it!”

“And you can’t ask for help, which makes it so much worse.” John sighed. He hadn’t figured out what type of water-fey the man was, but it was something. Shaking his head, he escorted the fey out of the restaurant.

“Here, you need this more than I do.” He gave the man his coat. “It’s too cold tonight for someone like you to go without one.”

“Oh, you don’t…”

“Stop it, you’re shaking so hard you can’t put words together.” He helped the man into his coat, “There.” He fastened it best as he could and waved down a passing taxi. Once he had the strange, frightened fey on his way home safely, John said goodnight to his co-workers and headed out. But he didn’t go home, instead, John went hunting. If he knew Moriarty, that coat was on the streets somewhere. John had every intention of rescuing it.

It took John almost two hours to find it, buried in a skip under a pile of trash-bags. It reeked of god knows what, but John retrieved the coat, a beautiful custom-made Belstaff coat with red button-holes on the lapels and a blue cashmere scarf stuffed into a pocket. Bundling the coat into a handy, clean paper sack, John made his way home. He would have the coat cleaned tomorrow and return it to its owner at the soonest. He had an old Army buddy of his who ran a bespoke dry-cleaning service, gave fellow vets a healthy discount and did uniforms for free up to three full kits.

\--

The next week went by in a blur of work and get-togethers with his Army pals. When Al Jenkins heard about the coat, he offered to do it for free. John hadn’t expected that, so he gave Jenkins a tip for the favour. Once he had the coat back, he put out an ad in the papers. It was a short piece that read “Found: Belstaff coat w/ red button-holes @ New North Street. Please Inquire for Retrieval.” He listed his phone-number and address in the ad and waited. A coat that nice wouldn’t go unclaimed for long, he just hoped the person who came for it was the legitimate owner. And it wasn’t just any coat, either, it was special. There was magic in it, and it was far too soft and smooth to be pure wool, no matter how finely spun. Some poor shapeshifter was missing their coat. He had a feeling he knew who it belonged to, but he didn’t know the man’s name, and without a name, he had nothing. It was both intriguing and frustrating. And John was also concerned about Moriarty’s involvement.

* * *

 


	2. Origin Of Joy

* * *

As soon as Sherlock Holmes saw the ad in the Lost & Found section of the papers advertising for a recovered Belstaff coat of specific tailoring, he knew what had happened to _his_ coat. He hated Jim Moriarty, so very much, for so many different things. But deliberate vandalism of personal property was low, even for the criminal mastermind who had owned Sherlock’s livelihood for two years.  And he couldn’t do anything about it. He hated that. His plight was not unknown to people, but there wasn’t anything they could really do. The most his brother was capable of was keeping Moriarty from hurting Sherlock or exploiting him. But really, all Moriarty ever did was demand twenty-four hours of Sherlock’s time once every three months. Otherwise, he never bothered Sherlock or interfered with his business. Sherlock knew what he had to do and took the opportunity to procure a few necessary things before he went to get his coat back. He did research on the number and address listed and it came back to a man named John Watson. The pictures he got showed him the man he had met the other night at Quo Vadis, the man who had been their server. John Watson. He was handsome, Fey, and his history promised Sherlock a chance to free himself if he did this right. As he browsed a jewellery store that catered exclusively to Fey, Sherlock tried to convince himself that this wasn’t an act of suicidal desperation.

It took him an hour, but Sherlock found the perfect ring. It was made of gold, engraved with the words “Love Loyalty Friendship” in ancient runic and came with two silver side rings that could be worn separately or in conjunction with the primary band.  It was pretty yet practical and relatively sturdy-looking. It would be more than suitable. His next move was to post an advertisement in the papers for the coat John had given him a week ago. He wrote out the following “Found: green parka @ Dean Street. Fur-lined hood and collar. Please Inquire @ 221B Baker Street after 10 am to claim.”

\---

Once he had the ad in the papers, all he could do was wait. And it was a gut-wrenching wait of nearly two weeks past his initial submission to the papers before anything happened. Timing was everything and the first time he took a caller that day, it was Moriarty.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock snarled, keeping his distance from the man who owned him.

“Can’t I just drop by, Locket?”

“No! You  know the rules!”

“Well, I just came to see how you were faring. You don’t look very well, are you eating?”

“I’m not hungry.” He said flatly. It was a blatant lie, he was starving, but that was none of Moriarty’s business.

“I have ways to keep you alive, you know.” Moriarty said in a dangerous voice, “Be stubborn all you want, it won’t help in the end.” The stink of ozone and smoke was thick in his nose and Sherlock coughed. Moriarty was Dark Fey, the worst of the worst, and Sherlock hated being around him. In a heartbeat, Moriarty was in front of him and one hand tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, tightened until Sherlock folded to his knees. And tightened again.

“You. Belong. To me. Are we clear on this? I _own_ you. And since you no longer have your precious coat, you’ll never be free!” Moriarty snarled, eyes blazing with malice that Sherlock felt in his gut.

“Please...don’t,” Sherlock whined, reaching for the hand clenching against the back of his neck. “I’m sorry!”

“I’ll show you sorry, Sherlock Holmes. Don’t you ever disrespect me again.” Moriarty yanked his hair painfully and pulled his head back until they looked at each other, “You won’t live to regret it.” And that, right there, those six words, sealed Moriarty’s fate.  He had openly and blatantly threatened Sherlock’s safety. Mycroft couldn’t do anything only so long as Moriarty maintained a certain neutrality. There were certain things he wasn’t allowed to do, and threatening Sherlock with violence was one. 

To prove his stated point that he controlled Sherlock, and could do whatever he wanted, Moriarty kissed Sherlock. It was not a consensual kiss, and Sherlock fought against it, but Moriarty only held on tighter and forced his way into Sherlock’s mouth. It made him feel dirty and dishonest.

“See you later, Locket!” Moriarty said cheerfully as he left Sherlock on his knees, hating himself, gone as quickly as he’d arrived. It wasn’t long before he heard footsteps again.

“Sherlock, dear?” It was his dear landlady, Mrs Hudson. She wasn’t alone, though, Sherlock recognized his brother’s scent and tried to breathe around a sob.

“Oh, Sherlock.” In a flash, he was in his brother’s arms, safe and cared for. “I’m so sorry. Did he threaten you?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. He broke the rules." His brother’s touch was welcome, comforting, “Find the man who recovered your coat.”

“I’ll...try. Mycroft?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I be happy?”

“Of course, little brother.” Mycroft’s touch was gentle and soothing and he calmed down slowly, shivering in his brother’s arms and uncaring of the indignation of sitting on his floor in tears, crying like a child. But no one in this house would judge him. Mycroft stroked his hair, humming some obscure lullaby from forgotten days until he was nearly asleep.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you feel better?”

“No.”

“What can I do for you? What do you need?”            

“The man who found and rescued my coat from Moriarty.” He sniffled, thinking of the unassuming veteran who held the key to Sherlock’s freedom and happiness.

 “What is his name, Sherlock? I can find him, if you’d like.”

“John.” He spoke the name softly, “John Watson.” Speaking the name conjured memories of fair, sandy hair, tanned skin, eyes that couldn’t quite decide which shade of blue they wanted to be, and the promise of laughter in the lines around his mouth and eyes that carried the weight of great sadness as well. Of a soft tenor etched with accents from places people had forgotten the names of centuries ago. The scent of petrichor and moss, of ancient forests, mingled with the smell of slightly-damp, clean fur and covered by a neutral cologne. The way he had felt _safe_ in the man’s presence, as if all he need do was ask him and he would protect Sherlock from everything. He clearly respected Moriarty, but Sherlock had the feeling John Watson would have no problem at all standing up to the púca.

“Mrs Hudson?” He raised his head, suddenly aching for something safe and familiar.

“Yes, dear?”

“Can you...where did I put the green parka from the other day?”

“It’s in your room, dear. You’ve slept with it every night. Shall I get it for you?”

“Please?” He sniffled. The coat in question belonged to John Watson and Sherlock had slept with it every night since Watson had given it to him out of a kindness because it smelled like the Fey. He was some manner of Cù-Sìth, but Sherlock wasn’t sure what. He’d have said Werewolf, but he didn’t think that was quite right, either. There was a soft rustling and he was aware of Mycroft lifting him from the floor and setting him on the couch, covering him with something.

“This is a rather unusual coat. What is the lining? A fur?”

“Pelt,” Sherlock muttered.

“Oh?”

“Cù-Sìth.” He sniffled and hunched his shoulders. He was very curious to know what the unassuming veteran’s Other Form looked like, he imagined it was quite a thing to behold.  He knew when Mycroft discovered the little box in the pocket, and what it was for, his brother chuckled.

“I see how it is. I will take care of Moriarty, you look after yourself, Sherlock.”

“Thank you, Mycroft.” He opened his eyes as his brother laid the coat over him.

“Do take care of him, Mrs Hudson.” Mycroft straightened his clothes and collected his overcoat and brolly and prepared to take his leave. “I’ll return in a few days’ time.”

“Of course, Mr Holmes.” Mrs Hudson just followed Mycroft downstairs and saw him out. Once Mycroft was gone, Mrs Hudson came back upstairs. She had tea, which Sherlock was grateful for.

“Do you need anything else, dear?” She asked as she straightened up around the flat.

“Hold any cases, Mrs Hudson. Unless it’s Lestrade.”

“Of course, dear.” She stirred up the flames in the fireplace until a healthy blaze was going to warm the place up a bit.

“Oh. And if a fellow named Watson comes by, let him up, please?”

“Of course I will.” Mrs Hudson just smiled and went off again, leaving Sherlock to himself for a while.

He must have fallen asleep, the sound of hollow knocking jolted him back to awareness sometime later. Startled, he pushed up on his elbows, having rolled onto his stomach, and looked around.

“Mrs Hudson!” He yelled hoarsely. He got no answer and groaned. “Mrs Hudson! The door!” There was still no response and the knocking continued. If it was Lestrade, he would have let himself in by now. Mrs Hudson was apparently out at the moment, and Sherlock muttered as he shoved off the couch and stumbled down the stairs, shrugging into the parka without thinking about it. It was instinct, really, and he pulled the door open with a bit more force than strictly necessary, completely prepared to tell off whoever had come banging on his door to not-so-kindly fuck off. And froze mid-sentence when he saw the man standing on his doorstep. He blinked a few times, wondering if he was dreaming or not. It was him. It was John Watson. He was here. At Baker Street!

“Are you real?” It was a stupid thing to ask, but he really wasn’t sure if this was actually happening in real time or if he was hallucinating.

“Um. I’m...pretty sure I’m real.” Watson was shorter than he by several inches, but he didn’t seem to have any problem making his presence felt. It was that safe, familiar feeling Sherlock remembered from their very brief encounter a few weeks ago.

“Are you okay?” Watson looked him over, concerned by the way Sherlock had appeared at the door like that. 

“No. I’m...not. But you came. How did...?”                  

“Papers.” Watson held out a clipping of his advertisement, “Thought you might want your coat back.”

“Oh, you have it!”

“Yep. Had it professionally cleaned and everything.” Indicating a garment bag draped over one arm. “One of my Army lads owns a service in town, did it for free when I explained it to ‘im.” 

“But...it’s not a regular coat.” He was afraid something might have happened to it in the process of cleaning it, not that he wasn’t grateful.

“Don’t worry about it. He knew the minute he saw it what it was. Wouldn’t tell _me_ what, but he knew. He sees enough Fey to know what’s what and how to handle an order from one.” Watson smiled. “Why don’t we go inside?”

“Yes! Please, please come in!” Sherlock let the stocky veteran into his house.

“Um, just up the stairs, if you please?”

“Ta.” Watson made his way up the stairs, burdened with the garment bag containing Sherlock’s beloved coat and making use of a cane to get himself upstairs. Sherlock had noticed the other night that he walked with a limp, but it was overlooked or ignored when he was busy and it didn’t really hinder his ability to work. Once they were inside 221B, Sherlock closed the door and turned from setting the locks to find Watson unpacking the Belstaff. He had promised that every care had been taken with cleaning the coat, and Sherlock could feel the benign magic that had gone into the process, the familiar sensation of his own magic ingrained into the very fabric.

“Here. I do believe this is yours.” Watson gave it a shake and held it up for him.

“Oh, thank you!” He breathed, feeling a tightness in his chest. But this time it was good. He was _happy_. He carefully removed Watson’s parka, which he had likewise had meticulously cleaned, set it aside, and reached out with shaky fingers to touch the Belstaff. He had felt disjointed and lost, naked without his coat, and now...he rubbed the proof between his fingers. It _had_ been his coat, all along! Watson had kept it for him all these weeks, protected it without even knowing what it was! The magic knit into the fabric made his skin tingle pleasantly, and he sighed a bit selfishly.

“Thought you might be missing it. Beautiful coat, can’t believe that ghoul Moriarty got hold of you like that.” Watson’s voice was soft as Sherlock handled the material. He pushed on Sherlock’s shoulder, distracting him a bit.

“What?”

“Here, let’s get you dressed properly and you can put it on.”

“Oh, really?”

“Absolutely.” Watson beamed at him and collected his own coat, “Come on, you.”        

“Where are we going?”

“To get you cleaned up. You reek of Moriarty and I rather prefer the way _you_ smell. Taking a shower will get you to rights.”

“Oh. I’m...sorry.” He’d forgotten that Watson was a Cù-Sìth, and his sense of smell would be far superior to any mortal’s.

“But you smell of something else more pleasant as well, Moriarty’s stench is almost...stale.”

“My brother was here earlier. Almost right after Moriarty left here.” He remembered Mycroft holding him and calming him down, singing to him. “It might be his scent.”

“It’s a stronger and slightly different scent of yours.”

“Which is what?”

“You know the smell of the ocean, the way the air smells?”

“Yes, I’m…quite familiar with it.”

“That’s what your coat smells like. But it’s heavier than your brothers, earthier.”

“My brother is a water-fey, as I am. But he’s a different type.”

“Figured. Mind if I ask?”

“I’m a Shapeshifter Selkie, the animal-skin I built into my coat is a special one.”

“Huh. I guess you figured my coat wasn’t just standard, either?”

“Oh, no, I’m not certain what your exact Other Form is, but I suspect you might be some breed of Cù-Sìth.”

“Oh, you’re good!” Watson smiled and steered him into the bathroom after setting their coats on the bed. “Come on, into the bath with you.” It was a matter of minutes to get out of his clothes, and he tugged on Watson’s jumper, whining a bit.

“I’ll fall asleep in a bath, but I need to get clean.” A bath would give him time to brainstorm a proper proposal for that ring in his pocket.

“Do you want me to help you?”

“Yes, please?”

“Oh, how can I say no to that face?” Watson chuckled, causing his eyes and mouth to crinkle in a soft, adorable way, and carefully set aside his own clothes. With his back to Sherlock, he stripped to the waist and Sherlock caught sight of a particular scar on his shoulder. It was small, but obvious against the muscled, tanned expanse of Watson’s back. It was an entry wound. Watson had been shot.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” He asked in what he hoped was a conversational tone of voice.

“What’s that?”

“You were wounded. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Oh. Looked me up, did you?”

“Just a bit. Wanted to know who you were.” He shrugged.

“Well, if it’s any difference to you, both places on several different occasions. Spent most of my service over there, see? Afghanistan, last station before I got myself shot and shipped home. Somebody didn’t do their research and thought Cù-Sìth meant Werewolf. Took a Quicksilver bullet to the shoulder while I was pulling one of my guys to cover in the middle of an ambush.” Watson turned to him.  Sherlock saw the exit-wound and couldn’t stifle a horrified gasp.

“Oh my god!”

“They were damn close, but still off the mark.”

“On several accounts! Oh, John!” He closed the distance between himself and the brave Sìth soldier. “This is a terrible scar! Quicksilver doesn’t do this to you unless…”

“Unless you’ve got Werekin blood. I do.” He sighed, head bowed, “My Mum was a Werewolf, Lycan, actually. Shapeshifter. Da was a Cù-Sìth, never knew ‘im growing up, he didn’t stay after I was born.”

“So you can shift at will?”

“Usually when I’m threatened or upset, but it hasn’t happened in a while. Spent lots of time in my Other Form when I got back, it was just…easier.” Watson let him touch the still-healing scar left behind by the infection from poor post-care and the Quicksilver bullet that had torn through his shoulder and narrowly missed his heart.

“That explains your unusual eye-colour, at least.” He said quietly, exploring the raised lines of the scar. The angle and location of the wound indicated a precision shot, which pointed to the likelihood of a sniper, which made his survival and return home even more incredible. Sherlock could feel where the gnarled tissue gave way to smoother lines, the careful cuts of a scalpel, where the diseased and scarred tissue had been removed. John caught his hand and Sherlock paused. The Sìth soldier didn’t need to say a word, it was obvious he was as much in want of a hot shower as Sherlock was, and Sherlock was willing to give him anything he could ask for. Anything. Everything. He just...had to ask first.

“This way.” He tugged on  John’s hand, wondering when he had gone from being “Watson” to being “John” and decided it wasn’t that important, leading him into the bathroom. There, he ran the water as hot as he could handle it and turned to his companion, who was still in trousers and pants. “May I?” He asked, reaching for the belt.

“Yes. Please.” John stepped closer and he carefully removed the last pieces of clothing. The bullet-wound was not his only scar, but it was by far his most prominent. Exploring could happen later, shower now. John steered him under the water and took the time to properly wash Sherlock, going over every inch of him that he could reach, which included _every_ inch of him when Sherlock dropped to his knees without hesitation.  It felt nice to be cared for and tended to like this.

Returning the favour for John when it was his turn, paying special care to the scar on his shoulder and his hair, Sherlock got out first and waited for John, handing him a towel to dry off. After a brisk, efficient wipe-down, they were moving back towards the bedroom. Once there, John took the towel from Sherlock and took the time to properly dry him off. It was a slow process getting dressed, they kept touching. The near-constant contact was leaving very pleasant, faint trails on Sherlock’s skin where his magic and John’s merged and touched and blended. Sherlock _hated_ physical contact, it was rarely friendly and more rarely consensual, but John...he was different. He was safe and had only ever treated Sherlock respectfully. He wandered into the bathroom after a while to do something with his hair and caught John’s reflection in the mirror as he stood in the doorway with his jumper in one hand.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“Is your hair... _green_?” Unless he was badly mistaken.

“Oh. You noticed?” John’s smile turned shy as he pulled the jumper over his head and used a towel to ruffle his hair, which was tinged a rather noticeable shade of green. It wasn’t all over, just...sort of at the tips. He hadn’t noticed before.

“What happened to it?” Sherlock took the towel from him and touched the damp strands of hair, running his fingers through them.

“It’ll happen when my hair gets wet. That’s my Da’s side of the family. Black and green fur, y’know.”

“Fascinating.”

“You finish up in here, I’ve got something I wanted to give you.” John fussed with the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, tucking it into his trousers for him. Sherlock resisted the urge to pull John closer and kiss him. Not right now. Just wait.

“You’ve given me my freedom, John, what more could you possibly offer me?” He turned back to the mirror and finished buttoning up his shirt.

“Just something to make sure no one ever makes the mistake of thinking you’re free game for taking advantage of.”  John gave him a slightly crooked smile and disappeared. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, but John was already out of sight. Eager to present his gift to the Sìth soldier, Sherlock finished up in the bathroom and went out through his bedroom. His coat was gone, but he knew John had it. Smiling, he went into his closet and took down a special case. Unlocking it, he took out the one item inside. He felt the edge where pieces had been cut off and used to line the collar and cuffs of his Belstaff coat. Anthea must have brought it back to Baker Street while he slept, it hadn’t been there that morning. His coat, along with the pelt itself, had both been stolen by Jim Moriarty back in 2011, it had been almost two years since that awful day. He could tell that the pelt had been purified of any dark magic, it felt normal, benign.

Taking John’s coat and the case after replacing the pelt, adding the ring-box before he locked it up again, Sherlock went out to the sitting-room where he found John sitting on the couch, a case very similar to his sitting on the coffee table with Sherlock’s coat folded on top of it.

“What’s that, Sherlock?”

“I want you to have something.” He sat down next to John, needing to be close. “I’m not sure when my brother had this recovered from Moriarty’s keeping or how long he’s had it, but…it’s back where it belongs, it’s back with me.” He lifted the coat from the case and stroked the fur lining the hood and the collar. the entirety of the hood was lined with the fur, not just the edge, and the collar as well.

“This is beautiful, is this from your pelt?”

“Yeah. That’s  just part of it.” John tilted his head. “I had my pelt stolen by one of my old commanders, but I got it back. It was…consensual, once I realized what he’d done and why. When he was discharged from the service, he gave it back to me and I had it sent home. I think it ended up with your brother.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because this case was sitting here when I came out after our shower. I didn’t see it before, but I found it on the red chair, so that’s probably why.” John patted the case sitting in front of him.

“Can I see it?”

“Of course.” John laid the case on his lap, setting his parka aside very carefully. “You can have it, Sherlock. I…I want you to have it.”

“Then you can have this.” He gave John _his_ case. “I wish my story had the ending yours did, but my pelt was stolen against my will, and he stole my coat, too. I got my coat back, but he didn’t give me back my pelt. One of my brother’s people must have recovered it from Moriarty sometime earlier and retrieved yours from your flat, bringing them both here, very likely while I was asleep and before you arrived.”

“There would have been time for that, wouldn’t there? I ran one errand before I came here.” John rubbed the lid of the case, “I suppose you’re going to need a key for that.”

“Yes.”

“Here.” Handing over a silver key. He gave John the key to his case and carefully opened John’s. Folded carefully inside and wrapped in leather and cheesecloth, was a thick, soft pelt that matched the lining of John’s coat.

“Oh, John!” He stroked the soft fur, which interestingly enough matched his hair-colour, complete with the green tinges. It was primarily silver grey with a black/green sable. “You must be a sight to behold in your Other Forms! This pelt is...enormous!” He unfolded the pelt and stood up. Something clattered to the floor, but he didn’t really pay attention. The pelt, missing the pieces that lined the hood and collar of the parka, was about the side of a medium throw-blanket.

“I could _sleep_ under this, or on top of it! John, this is gorgeous!” Which really made him wonder what the Sìth soldier _looked_ like in his Other Form. The fur was longer than standard, incredibly soft, and it smelled just the way John did, but stronger. It was pleasant and safe.

“Oh, this is beautiful.” John’s voice was soft, almost awed as he held up Sherlock’s own pelt, “Giant Otter? My god, you must be...what, over seven feet long! What a thing you must be to see, Sherlock!”

“I don’t always appear in my true Other Form. I’m still quite large enough to get attention for my size, but I don’t frighten anyone. I try not to.” Sherlock stifled a giggle at the way John’s eyes widened. Yes, his Other Form was rather...large. But he wasn’t supposed to _be_ small. Now, thanks to Glamour, he could appear smaller than his given size, as he imagined John could as well. Which really begged the question of how tall John was in his Other Form. He carefully refolded the Hybrid pelt, wondering what the Lycan half had offered John. After wrapping the pelt in the protective coverings, he closed the case and looked for the item he had dropped earlier. It was a small box, a familiar box. Not _his_ box, no, John was holding that one.

“Oh.”

“It...seemed a reasonable thing to do. I couldn’t...I couldn’t risk someone else doing to you what Moriarty got away with, I...” John trailed off, “Sherlock?”

“Yes.” He almost forgot how to breathe as he looked at the ring. “We must have visited the very same jeweller, John.”

“Should’ve seen the man’s eyes when I told him what I was looking for, just about committed him for the way he kept smiling.” John had given him a nearly identical ring to the one he had given John, which was both touching and a little worrisome. He and John exchanged rings, just as they had entrusted their pelts and freedoms to each other a moment ago, and Sherlock noticed that they each wore one silver ring on the right hand and the primary band on the left hand with the second silver band flush.

They had never once had anything to do with each other beyond one night of brief contact and crossed wires through the papers, and yet...they seemed to be thinking along the same lines of making sure the other was safe and properly possessed of their own liberties while still being...what was a good word for it? Mated? Married? Taken? Engaged? Whatever the word for it was, Sherlock took comfort in knowing that he no longer had to face the world alone. And that was a beautiful, liberating, and frightening thing.

* * *

 


	3. Magic In My House: Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds work, and John joins him on a case. And Sherlock learns something about John, something rather important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin: Part 1 of 2.

* * *

After exchanging rings and the unspoken promises that went with them, and carefully securing the pelt cases in the safe Mycroft had given him, Sherlock found John fixing tea in the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

“Would you like some tea, Sherlock?”

“Yes, please.”

“You can go sit down if you want to.”

“No, thank you.”

““No, thank you”?” John looked over his shoulder at him.

“I want to…” Sherlock hesitated. How did he admit that he didn’t want to be alone? That he didn’t want to be separated from John? At all? He had never been close to anyone besides his brother, and strangers generally didn’t appeal to him. Making friends was almost impossible for him, so he generally didn’t bother to try. However, John was…different. Sherlock didn’t know what made him different, but he was hoping they would have time to explore together.

“Sherlock? You alright, sweetheart?” John’s voice was soft again, and Sherlock blinked, focusing on the other man. A cup of tea was pressed into his hands, and he instinctively grabbed John’s hand before he could pull away.

“John, don’t…leave me? Please don’t leave me.”

“Who said I was going to leave you?” John smiled and tugged on his hand, leading him to the sitting-room. They ended up on the couch together, and quietly drank their tea. Sherlock was afraid to ask for anything, he didn’t want John to push him away. Any intimacy was always on Moriarty’s terms and he never had a say. He had been ridiculed and abused for wanting affirmative touch, Moriarty said he needed to be controlled, not loved. It had changed the way he interacted with people, and not for the better. He was startled out of his thoughts by a touch on the back of his hand and he almost dropped his cup.

“Take it easy. I’m not going to hurt you.” It was John. Sherlock looked down where they touched and then up to meet John’s gaze.

“John?”

“Yeah. I’m right here.”

“Okay. Will you stay?”

“Sure, if you want me to?”

“Please.” He put his empty cup down and took John’s, turning to the kind Hybrid once his hands were empty. “Stay.”

“Okay.”

“Stay…forever.”

“Okay.”

“Can you keep me safe?”

“I’ll do my damn best to make sure no one ever hurts you again. And if someone does, I’ll make ‘em properly sorry for it.” John took his hand, “I promise.” That was all he could really ask for. Sherlock remembered what had happened earlier and wondered how long it would take for his brother to eliminate Moriarty properly.

“Hey. Come back to me, Sunshine.”

“What?”

“I said come back.” John was watching him carefully. “Jesus, what has Moriarty done to you?”

“I’m so sorry, John. I may be a bit more broken than I thought. You…deserve better.”

“Don’t you dare.” John’s eyes were hard, his voice cold, “You are not responsible for anything. You had no choice. And that sickens me. I will take care of you, Sherlock. I promise. I will make sure you are safe, and appreciated, and loved the way you deserve.” Anything Sherlock wanted to say was forgotten as his phone rang. It was a text message from Lestrade.

 

**Heard about your morning. You doing okay? – Lestrade**

 

Sherlock sighed. Of course Lestrade had heard about his morning. 

 

**I’m fine. A little tired, but nothing terrible. – SH**

**Mycroft suggested a distraction, and I just landed a case I could use a hand with. Interested? – Lestrade**

 

Sherlock had to smile. Lestrade knew how to get his attention. And really, he wanted out. Something like a case would be the perfect distraction. And he wanted to introduce John to his brother’s Amarante boyfriend sooner than later. He might as well, since they were likely to be in-laws at some point and it was looking very likely that John would be not only living with him but possibly working with him.

 

**What is it? -- SH**

**Over in your neck of the woods. Other side of Regent's Park. – Lestrade**

**If you want in, I can give you the address. – Lestrade**

 

“What are you doing over here?” John had noticed his distraction, but he didn’t sound upset that he had been ignored, more like he was curious to know what had gotten Sherlock’s attention so completely.

“Found work for me. Well, us.” He got up, pocketing his phone and went to fetch his coat. “I don’t suppose you’d like to come along, would you?”

“Where are you going?”

“Other side of Regent’s Park.”

“What’s over there?”

“A case.”

“A case?” John got up and came up alongside him, “What exactly do you do? Did I ever ask?”

“I am a consulting detective. The only one in the world.”

“A consulting detective?”

“I came up with the job on my own.”

“What does a consulting detective do? Aren’t you a private investigator?”

“No, no, no. I’m smarter than that, more clever.” He smiled at John, “I take the cases no one else will bother with and I help The Met when they need me. Which is always, as they’re all a bunch of idiots.”

“Sherlock!”

“What?” He swung the Belstaff around his shoulders, unable to help a happy, content sigh as it settled into place.

“I don’t think calling police personnel idiots is going to win you any favours or friends.”

“Well, they’re not going to know what they’re looking at, or if they do, they’ll still get it wrong. They always do. Especially if that hack Anderson is around.”

“Y’know what?” John reached for his coat, “I’m going to come with you, not because you asked me to, but because someone has to make sure you don’t get yourself arrested for interfering with police or vandalism or something.”

“Then come along!” He just smiled at John and headed downstairs. There was a muttering and some expletives as John struggled into his parka, but it was no time at all before the Sith was was at his side.

“So, where are we going?” John asked as they headed north on Baker Street towards Regent’s Park.

“Chester Terrace. Twenty minutes walk from here.” He passed John his phone and let him read the text.

““Meet @ 36 Chester Close, looks like at least a 6, high 7. Two bodies, not sure if double-homicide or murder-suicide. Anderson on-location, be warned. – Lestrade”.” John frowned and gave back the phone, “You really do work for the police.”

“Of course I do. They don’t like me.”

“I wonder why.” An eye-roll, but no malice. “So, who’s Lestrade?”

“He’s in charge. Detective Inspector. Smartest man at The Met, and the best. He’s also my brother’s boyfriend.”

“Sorry?”

“Full disclosure, in case you find yourself getting the second degree or are kidnapped off the streets by suspicious-looking black cars with tinted windows and pretty auburn-haired women in the backseat.”

“What does your brother do again?”

“You know, I’m not sure. He’s in the government, minor position is what he says, but he spends too much time in Whitehall and Vauxhall Cross for that to be true.”

“Vauxhall Cross!” John’s eyes widened, “He’s with Intelligence!”

“Yes.”

“Jesus. What a thing _that_ is!” John’s suspicion melted into something almost akin to… amusement. “Is your brother Mycroft Holmes, by any chance?”

“Yes? Do you know him?”

“Oh, yes.” John chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I’m rather familiar with your brother.”

“Do I want to know how?”     

“Ask him about what happened in Singapore sometime.” John’s smile was positively wicked and Sherlock was left to follow after him.

“What happened in…Singapore?”

“How much research did you really do on me, Sherlock?”

“Just…a bit?”

“Oh, you sweet, innocent little thing.” John looked disgustingly pleased with himself, “You’re in for a treat! Go do some homework! Go hunting in MI6’s archives, see what you can find.” He knew about John’s Army service, twenty years of it, but there had been a few gaps, one spanning almost six years. It had still counted, of course, but…where had he gone for six years? What did Mycroft know? Was that history why Mycroft had offered to help him find John? Because he knew the veteran and knew what he was capable of?

 

When they reached Chester Terrace, they ran into the scene almost right away. From Chester Terrace and Cumberland Place to 35 Chester Terrace, the street was completely blocked off from traffic. Beyond the line at Chester and Cumberland, it was full of police vehicles. The two constables guarding that line looked at each other and one radioed in, received an affirmative, and promptly sent John and Sherlock on their way.

“Thanks, lads.” John smiled at the pair, who watched him pass them by. They were Fey, and Sherlock suspected they had marked his mate as one of their own kind, and not one to be underestimated. Sherlock kind of wanted to see someone do that, just to see what John did when people took him at face value and ignored what he was truly capable of. He got an idea of it when they ran into Sally Donovan at the line separating the rest of the scene from the house in question.

“Ah, hello, Freak.”

“Donovan. Is Lestrade around?”

“Inside. What are you doing here?”

“He asked for me.”

“We don’t need you.”

“The messages I received from him and the images strongly suggest otherwise, Sergeant Donovan.” He looked her over as he ducked the line, lifting it for John to follow him.

“Wait, who’s this? What’s he doing here?”

“He’s with me.”

“What, you’ve a guard dog now, is that it? He one of Moriarty’s people?”

“Yes, actually, and no. Absolutely not.” Sherlock was prepared to blow her off, despite the well-aimed barb.

“Well, he doesn’t look like much, does he? Some mutt you found at the society, Holmes?”

“No. He’s a friend of mine, and I will thank you to refrain from further insulting either of us.” He reached back and took John’s hand in his, “Come on, John.”

“You can’t let them treat you like that, Sherlock! It’s _wrong_!”

“I’m used to it.”

“No!” John snarled, pulling away from him, “It’s not something you get used to! It’s never something you get used to! Never let someone treat you like that!”

“John, please. It’s fine.”

“No. It’s. _Not_.”

“Put a muzzle on your mutt, Holmes.” Donovan sneered. Sherlock saw the air around John rippling and realized it was the Glamour. Uh oh.

“John, don’t. Please. Not here.”

“I’m in complete control, Sherlock.”And he was, surprisingly, he was absolutely in complete control of himself. What kind of power did John Watson really have? Who was he? A Cù-Sìth Lycan, but…who? What was the secret of the Watson family? Sherlock hadn’t noticed before because he had been otherwise occupied with practical concerns like staying away from Moriarty, getting his coat back, and finding John, but the magic he felt coming off of John was…alarming.

“John…” He looked around, people were starting to gather. “Not here. Please.”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade’s voice broke into the moment and he turned.

“Lestrade.”

“Donovan, as badly as I would love to see you put in your place once and for all, I’d rather you not provoke Colonel Watson any further. He would rip you to shreds.” Greg Lestrade stepped between them, breaking up the tension a bit more, “And I do not mean that in the figurative sense of publicly humiliating you with the kind of dressing-down you’ve deserved since 2011. You got away with a slap on the wrist and a month of desk-duty. I’d have taken your badge for what you did that day.”

“But, sir, he’s…”

“Donovan. Not. Another. Word.” Lestrade snarled, his voice dangerous, “It will be on your head, and yours alone, if the wrong ears get word of your blatant disrespect to a member of the Summer Court. And I will not let you get away with it. Not ever again.” Sherlock looked at John in alarm. Was he royalty? Was he truly Fey royalty and Sherlock had completely missed it? John took his hand and held on, his demeanour soft and reassuring, but the message was very clear in his body language.

“Come on inside, you two.” Lestrade turned away from Donovan and looked at Sherlock and John. “Have any trouble getting here?”

“No. We walked from Baker Street.”

“Figured you would, seeing you were this close anyway.” Lestrade smiled and showed them where to leave their coats, if they’d like to. But neither John nor Sherlock were about to leave their coats unattended. Bad things happened when you did that, and Sherlock had just gotten his _back_.

“No thank you, Lestrade. Where are we?”

“Upstairs. Can’t make heads or tails of it, I was kind of hoping you might be able to.” Lestrade showed them where the bodies had been found and gave them everything he already had on it.   Sherlock did a bit of his usual showing off, and about halfway through a rant about how it was both a double-homicide and a murder-suicide (and oh boy did Lestrade give him a look for that one), he was distracted by a soft exclamation from off to his left.

“That’s amazing!”

“Sorry?” He blinked and looked over.

“I said that was amazing! That was...astonishing, even! How did you do that?” John was staring at him like he held the answer to every mystery in the universe and then some, like he was some deity among mortals.

“I...observed.”

“Incredible.” John just smiled at him and he momentarily forgot what he was doing.

“Sherlock?”

“Sorry, Lestrade. Yes. As I was saying.” And he launched back into his tirade. Until: “Fantastic.”

“Did you know you do that out loud?”

“Sorry, I’ll...stop doing it.”

“No, don’t. It’s...fine.” Sherlock looked at John, who looked ashamed of distracting him. “It’s fine.”

“Okay.”

“Can you two please not do this on my scene? Please?” Lestrade chuckled, looking at John. “Are you the one who rescued Sherlock’s coat, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Huh. Wasn’t expecting someone like you. I thought maybe one of Moriarty’s goons would get it, or some stranger had it and wouldn’t know the first thing about what it was.”

“No, sir, I found it. Had to do some hunting, but I watched him steal the coat the second time he took it and I traced his route.” That was news to Sherlock.

“I keep forgetting how loyal a Lycan can be.” Lestrade smiled, “Keep this one, Sherlock.”

“I will.” Sherlock got to his feet and brushed off his hands. “As for these victims, get Branson Vendell to talk. He’ll have all the answers you could want that I don’t have for you.”

“Branson Vendell. Got it. Anything I need to know about this bloke?”

“John?” Sherlock looked at his...well, what was John?

“He’s not one of us, so standard precautions are unnecessary.” John proved it to them by executing a revealing spell. There was absolutely no sign of any magic besides their own in the room. “And I didn’t sense any in the house beyond the members of your team who are.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“My pleasure, Inspector.” John got to his feet and brushed off his hands before shaking hands with Lestrade, “And don’t worry about your sergeant, she’s far from the first person to call me a mutt.”

“Donovan could use a hard lesson in civility, she’s always been like that around Sherlock, and I’ve had enough.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not fine, but time and place and all that.” Lestrade sighed, “Thanks for coming out, boys.”

“Thanks for calling. That one needed a good run, I think this about did the trick for ‘im.” John looked over at Sherlock and grinned as he poked a thumb at him. Sherlock made a face and considered sticking his tongue out. Lestrade walked them to the primary line and saw them off again.

“Take care of yourselves, boys.”

“We will. Thank you, Lestrade.” Sherlock tugged on the collar of his coat and looked up at the sky. “If my brother asks, you can tell him.”

“Absolutely.” Lestrade nodded and stepped close to Sherlock, carefully putting a hand on his arm, a neutral, supportive grip. “I heard about this morning. Are you okay, Sherlock?”

“Yes, Lestrade. I’m...alright.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I never said you had to.” He could just feel John tensing up behind him at the handling, but John had to know that Lestrade was never, ever going to hurt Sherlock. That he was a good one.

“Keep your boyfriend close, Sherlock.”

“I will.”

“Mind my asking what exactly he is?”

“He’s a Hybrid.”

“Jesus Christ. What does _that_ Other Form look like!”

“I imagine his Glamoured Other Form is exponentially less frightening, and still intimidating. A large dog of some appearance, judging by his pelt.”

“Is that what’s lining the hood of his coat?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” Lestrade sized up John and his eyes narrowed. John, knowing he was under scrutiny, stood perfectly still, at rest, stance relaxed but alert. Lestrade ventured closer and circled the Summer Fey carefully, stroking the material of his coat and taking one hand. As with most Shapeshifters, John was prohibitively protective of his pelt, but he allowed Lestrade to study his hood and collar.

“That’s a gorgeous pelt, Colonel. The colouring is phenomenal, I’ve never seen the likes of it before.”

“Da was a Cù-Sìth, Mum was Lycan.”

“That’s an interesting mix. I guess you don’t have much to do with the Court, then?”

“Nah. Never really cared for it, and they’ve been content to leave me to my own business.”

“Lucky _you_.” Sherlock muttered. The Winter Court had been more than happy to interfere on his business whenever they had a chance to do so. But with the whole trouble with Moriarty, he was grateful for it. They were probably the only reason he was still alive. Even someone as power-hungry and psychopathically inclined wouldn’t risk the fury of the Fey Courts by killing off someone like Sherlock Holmes.

“Can’t say the same for the Winter Court, can you, Sherlock?”

“Shut up, Lestrade.”

“Sherlock!” John scolded as Lestrade chuckled.

“I am grateful of their interference in one matter only, but they can otherwise very unkindly fuck off out of my business.” He snapped. “My brother is enough of a hassle, I do not need the rest of them putting their infuriating noses where they do not belong!”

“Tell me I returned the coat of a Winter Prince and I won’t believe you.” John folded his arms across his chest.

“You did more than return my coat, John.” Sherlock reached out and took John’s hand in his. “You know you did.”

“Oh, fuck me.” Lestrade had seen the rings, “Are those what I think they are?”

“Yes, Lestrade.”

“Ooh, this is going to hit hard! Word gets out a Summer Prince saved Sherlock Holmes, I hope you boys don’t mind a big wedding.”

“The Court leaves me alone for a reason. They know I have no interest in that business, and they don’t force it on me.” John shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets, “My mum might’ve been a Lycan, but she abandoned me when I was ten. Left me with my sister, who started drinking when she turned sixteen and hasn’t been sober for more than a week since then. And Da was never around, given what he was. I didn’t care, his kind doesn’t stay for good reason.”

“What happened to your mother? It’s unusual for a Royal to leave like that.”

“She was exiled.” John leaned his head back and looked up at the cloudy sky, it was going to snow soon.

“But you...stayed?”

“I can’t leave. I’m...the only one left. My grandmother can’t live forever, doesn’t want to, and my sister’s not worth trying to save.” Sherlock saw a shimmer around John, similar to when he’d confronted Donovan, but different. “I tried and she burned me. Cursed me for “being a puppet”. I never forgave her for calling me a coward when I went to the Army.”

“Why did your mother leave, John?”

“Because she killed another Lycan.”

“Oh my god.”

“I haven’t heard from her or seen her in thirty-two years, I don’t even know if she’s still _alive_.”

“But you care.”

“Of course I do!” John looked at Sherlock, “My mother was beautiful, and kind. She killed to save _me_.”

“I’m so sorry, John.” Sherlock did a risky thing and hugged John. It seemed the proper thing to do, and it was not a gesture rebuked. John shook and his head dropped to Sherlock’s shoulder. But that wasn’t enough. Adjusting his angle, Sherlock got John settled with his head against his chest and one hand on the back of his mate’s neck and the other arm wrapped around his shoulders. Lestrade stood guard for them, a couple of nearby personnel crept closer but still kept a respectful distance. There was some whispering, concerned looks, and he saw one of the constables take off at a run.

“Where’s she going?”

“Not a clue.” Lestrade looked at the others, “Hey, Nichols.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Where’d Barstow run off to?”

“She went to get one of the sergeants, sir.”

“Right.” Lestrade sighed and ruffled his hair, looking tired suddenly.

Sherlock held John while he relived memories that provoked as much joy as they did pain. This shouldn’t be happening in public, he knew that. This was a very private matter. And everyone watching it happen knew that. Lestrade came up alongside and put a hand on John’s back, lower than Sherlock’s, and let his Lycan mate know he wasn’t alone.

“Hey. I know you walked over here, but let me drive you boys back to Baker Street.”

“You don’t have to do that, Inspector.”         

“Like hell I don’t. I’m not about to let the likes you walk home right now, Aetherborn. Come with me.” Lestrade was already heading for where he’d parked his car, leaving them no choice but to follow.

“Is he always like that?” John looked after Lestrade, an eyebrow raised in puzzled amusement.

“When he’s not giving you a choice of refusing him because he knows you will otherwise? Yes. Always.”

“I. Can. Walk.”

“John, your hands are shaking and if I didn’t think you’d drop in your tracks, I’d let go of you.” He kept his arm around John and led him in the right direction. “I had no idea you were the Aetherborn.”

“No one does. Do I look like it?”        

“No, you…don’t. You don’t look anything like the Heir Apparent of the Summer Court.”

“Good,” John said briskly. One of the constables went ahead of them and held the door of Lestrade’s car for them. Didn’t say anything, didn’t look John in the eye.

“Sir.”

“Thank you, Constable.” John gave the constable a friendly smile and ducked into the car.

“Thank you, Billings.” Sherlock gave the constable a nod as he followed John. It was a very quiet drive from Chester Terrace to Baker Street, and when they arrived to find Mycroft’s car parked out front, he was not surprised. Going inside, they were confronted by Mrs Hudson, who folded her arms as she stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking from John to Sherlock, shaking her head.

“I don’t know what the two of you have done, but your brother is up there and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was waiting for the Queen!”

“And you would not be too far wrong, Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock sighed. “Just…not _your_ Queen.” She looked at the two of them and then at Lestrade, who stood guard behind them, one hand resting not-subtly on the holster of his service-pistol, revealing his badge at the same time.

“Oh, Sherlock.” She knew all about the Fey Courts, the different sorts of Fey creatures that roamed London, the UK, and the world. “The both of you?”

“More John than myself this time, Mrs Hudson. If anyone else comes, please do see them up, will you?”

“Of course. You’d…better go up. He looked rather out of sorts.”

“Well, it’s not every day he has to put up with the missing Aetherborn Prince of the Summer Court, is it?” John muttered, heading up the stairs slowly. Mrs Hudson gasped, one hand to her heart, the fingertips of the other to her lips.

“Oh my goodness!”

“Mum’s the word, Mrs Hudson,” Lestrade said as he climbed behind them. When they got into 221B, Sherlock took John’s coat, hung it alongside his own, and went into the kitchen while Lestrade went to Mycroft’s side, greeting his partner.

“Your Highness.” Mycroft’s voice was soft and reverent as he addressed John, Sherlock hadn’t heard him take that tone of voice with anyone in a long time, not even Queen Elizabeth, and he looked over his shoulder. He saw the expression on John’s face and knew it must have been decades since anyone had openly addressed him as “Your Highness”, he wasn’t used to hearing it.

“Mycroft.” John nodded to the man who more or less ran the country. Because, really, what else could someone with the kind of power his brother held actually be _doing_ with his time? Sherlock finished what he was doing in the kitchen and went out again, taking his place next to John, it seemed natural for him to be there. John sat down in the red armchair, Sherlock stood by him for a bit.

“John, take my seat. Please.” Mycroft surprised all of them by getting his feet, having taken Sherlock’s grey chair whenever he’d arrived, and vacating his seat. John raised an eyebrow and looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock just shrugged. His brother’s move surprised him as much as it did John. Finally, he decided to move. There was no reason not to, really. It got quiet in Baker Street, there was an air of anticipation and Sherlock could feel the crackle of disquiet radiating off of John. All he could do was offer whatever support he was able to, however he could. John just needed _him_ to be there. If he needed more than that, he would let Sherlock know.

* * *

 


	4. Magic In My House: Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have solved the case and return to Baker Street to find themselves host to a few very unexpected guests. One is unexpected but not unwelcome on Baker Street. The other...well, there had better be a damn good reason Moriarty's back on Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of 2. Angst ahoy! Sherlock meets a most remarkable woman when John's estranged mother comes calling on Baker Street after the case, and John shows his true colors when Moriarty storms Baker Street on the pretense of protecting Sherlock from arrest. It gets violent very quickly.

* * *

It seemed an eternity and no time at all before they heard the bell. John made a soft sound of distress as they listened to Mrs Hudson open the door to their expected royal guests and offer to see them upstairs. Sherlock instinctively put one hand on John’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze before he moved his hand to the back of his mate’s neck. John relaxed a bit at the touch, but not entirely. They listened to the sound of footsteps outside and he counted three besides Mrs Hudson. His sense of smell told him that three Lycans had entered the house, one of them exceptionally powerful. Two bodyguards for the exiled Queen? The door opened and Mrs Hudson let in their guests. Once they were all inside, she looked quickly at Sherlock and John and disappeared again, closing the door behind her. Anyone who had been seated when the door opened had gotten to their feet the instant Mrs Hudson opened the door, and  Sherlock stood behind John as they faced the Lycan royals. The bodyguards weren’t royalty, but they were members of the Summer Court, Sherlock was able to mark them by the soft aura of gold around them. Two constables from Lestrade’s division, had they taken the job upon themselves or had they been assigned to the detail? But the one he was most interested in was the woman standing in the middle of the room. She looked unassumingly plain, like John, it was clear where he’d gotten his looks from. But the power she held was…unmistakable.

“Your Majesty.” His brother was the first to genuflect, the rest of them followed suit. John dropped to one knee less than an arm’s reach from the small, powerful woman with his eyes.

“Mother.” He lowered his head, a sign of submission? Or repentance? Watching someone like John Watson kneel to another was almost heartbreaking, Sherlock forced himself to remain still. It was clear life had not been very kind to Alexandra Watson, that she had suffered in the thirty-two years since her exile. But she was stronger for it and while her scars did not define her, they had made her the woman she was now. For a moment, it was quiet in the room, and then she reached out one hand, slowly, as if uncertain of the reception she would receive. Sherlock saw a shudder wrack John’s body as the outstretched hand came to rest upon his bowed head and it took every ounce of self-restraint he had not to go to his mate’s side and comfort him. This was not for him to interrupt.

“Oh, my son.” Her voice was soft, hoarse with time and trials, but still held a mother’s comfort, “My beautiful son.” Sherlock watched elegant fingers scarred and toughened by toil stroke through strands of hair the same colour as John’s pelt. Sherlock would never get used to the tinges of black and green in his mate’s hair, it was like nothing he had ever seen before and it was so completely unique to John. A soft sound broke the quiet in the room and Sherlock realized it was coming from John.

“John?” He spoke his mate’s name carefully.  Had he finally given up trying to hold his emotions in check? He had been so close at the scene, but he had managed to hold himself together. Sherlock got slowly to his feet, followed in turn by Mycroft and Greg, who traded a slightly guilty look with each other.

“I think it is best if we took our leave now, Gregory,” Mycroft said quietly. “With Your Majesty’s leave.”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes.”

“Ma’am.” His brother dropped a deep and proper bow to the exiled  Summer Queen and took his leave quietly. The bodyguards withdrew as well. As the door closed, John finally just…Sherlock wasn’t sure how to classify the sound. It was something deep and gut-wrenching, pulled from some untouched depth of emotion locked away for so long. It almost sounded like a mournful howl.

“John!” Sherlock finally gave up trying to be proper and rushed to John’s side, throwing his arms around his mate as John slipped to his knees and folded. “John, breathe, please. I’m here, John, I’m with you.” One hand reached for him, closed tight around his, the other…John had reached for his mother and found purchase on the material of her hi-vis Anorak. She had come from the same scene they had just left, the stench of dead bodies was still on her clothes. Alexandra shifted, but did not pull away from them. Instead of abandoning them, she knelt and put her arms around her son, and Sherlock as well. He remained still, unwilling to correct her.

“My dear son. I am so, so sorry.” Her voice was gentle, soothing, the scent of ancient forests overwhelming the stench of her work. “It has been so long. I have thought of you every day.”

“I…Mum.” John’s voice was hoarse, broken. “I’ve _missed_ you! I’ve…done and seen so many things and so many people, but…”

“You were always the kindest child, John.” Alexandra smiled as she stroked her son’s hair and tilted his face so she could look at him properly, “Let me see you. Oh, you grew up so handsome.” Sherlock didn’t miss the way John blushed, even through his tears, and found it in himself to smile. Alexandra pulled her son against her, and as John settled into her embrace, she looked over his head at Sherlock and her smile grew a bit.

“Who is your rather handsome friend?”

“Uh…” John pulled back and refocused on the present moment. “Oh. Um. This is…Mum, this is Sherlock Holmes.” John sat back and Sherlock put both arms around his mate. Alexandra’s eyes widened as she put the pieces together.

“How did you…?”

“I rescued his coat,” John admitted quietly. “His brother rescued his pelt.”

“And Moriarty?”

“My brother promised to handle that for me.” Sherlock moved so he was sitting behind John and put his arms around the expatriate prince, not afraid of expressing intimacy in front of Alexandra. He felt John relax and rested his chin on John’s shoulder.

“I don’t know if you understand exactly what my son has done for you, Sherlock, in an act of complete selflessness that is completely within his character to look after others before himself and defend those incapable of doing so for themselves.” Alexandra’s eyes darkened and he saw the now-familiar ripple around her that expressed a visual cue of displeasure or sadness. Her voice had hardened, but her displeasure was not with either of them.

“He saved my _life_ , Majesty. I never ever dared hope there would be someone in this world who cared enough to risk themselves like that. Moriarty is one of the most dangerous men in the country.”

“He is a clanless renegade púca who cares for nought but his own skin and has no regard for those caught in the crossfires of his mischief. His power is nought to ours.” Alexandra said harshly, reaching out to take their hands, “You boys listen to me, and listen _well_. If either of you is in any danger, at all, from Moriarty and his ilk, we will protect you.”

“But, you were…” Sherlock trailed off, unwilling to point out that maybe she wasn’t in the right position to be offering them sanctuary from the likes of Moriarty. Who wouldn’t hesitate to have them both killed if and when he found out that Sherlock’s coat had not only been recovered but returned to him, and that by the clandestine Heir Apparent of the Summer Court.

“I was, yes. Your intelligence was correct.” Alexandra’s demeanour softened and she looked at their hands, noting the rings. “But I was welcomed back to the Court ten years ago and my titles and privileges were reinstated.”

“If that was true, wouldn’t your family have known?”

“Not if one of us was out of reach.” John mused, “I was with Intelligence ten years ago, they wouldn’t have been able to get word to me, and I wouldn’t have had any way of knowing after the fact, no one ever brought it up.”

“Singapore?” Sherlock recalled him saying something about that earlier when they had been discussing Mycroft's own government work.

“Yes, Singapore.” John chuckled, “You really should ask your brother about that mission some time. It was quite...memorable.”

“You should know, John, that I do not share nicely.”

“And no one is asking you to, my dear.” John sighed, leaning his head back, “What do we do about Moriarty? We can't just wait for him to make his move.”

“You won't have to wait very long. But while he is at large and you are both at risk, it is not safe for you in London.”

“Then, where do we go? What can we do?”

“You will be moved to a secure location immediately and remain there, under full guard, until the coast is clear.” Alexandra got to her feet and John and Sherlock followed. She straightened her uniform and looked at them, at John, who had stiffened and drawn himself tall. “I do not doubt your ability to defend yourself and your mate, John, but in this, you must trust me to keep you both safe. It will do no good if either of you is injured. Or worse, killed.”

“Yes, Mum.” John's shoulders slumped and he bowed his head. Sherlock put one hand on his mate's shoulder. The reality that they were both in serious danger was staring them in the face, and they didn't have much time. Going back to his bedroom, Sherlock found a small suitcase and packed a few days worth of clothes and necessities. John came in and retrieved the pelt-cases from the safe.

“These are coming with us.” He said simply. Sherlock nodded and made sure he had everything he needed. Going out to the sitting-room, he found Alexandra in conference with his brother and Lestrade. Working out the specifics, no doubt.

Suddenly, there was a commotion downstairs and Lestrade and Alexandra's radios both came to life.

“Say that again, Shepherd?” Lestrade frowned, holding the press-to-talk button.

“Moriarty, sir!” The exclamation was broken up by static, but still very clear. They all turned to the door, and Sherlock felt a stab of fear. Not again. Please, not ever again. He would die before submitting to Moriarty even once more. Unfortunately, he just might get that misguided wish if he wasn't careful.

“Sherlock! Sherlock!” The clever, manipulative púca burst into view at the top of the stairs, came to a dead halt at the sight of Lestrade and Alexandra, “Oh, thank goodness! I saw the cars and thought you were being arrested for something! Are you alright?” Before any of them could stop him, Moriarty had closed the distance between himself and Sherlock and seized him by the hands. Sherlock was aware of how his mate bristled when Moriarty laid hand on him.

“He's done nothing wrong, you don't have any business here to arrest him.” This was to the very confused, very angry Fey representing The Met. “You absolutely have no right to do it!”

“Why on earth would we be arresting Sherlock Holmes?” Lestrade hissed, looking at Moriarty like he'd lost his mind. “I'm not about to put my best resource in handcuffs without a good fucking reason, Mr Moriarty.”

“Well, you would! And have! I can't let you do that again now, can I, Inspector?” Moriarty turned a slick, sickening smile on Lestrade, “You wouldn't want to put your own job in jeopardy again, would you?”

“You are neither welcome nor wanted here, Mr Moriarty. And it is quite presumptuous of you to assume either of yourself.” Mycroft’s voice was dangerous, and Sherlock could see Lestrade and Alexandra holding back John from doing…something properly violent.

“Oh, come now, Mycroft! Don’t be like that!” Moriarty said cheerfully, “Of course you know that’s not true. Besides, what with your brother’s coat stolen, and that really is quite a shame, someone has to make sure he doesn’t run afoul of any questionable characters.”

“Like you!” John snarled, “Get your hands off of him!”

“Ahh! Johnny Boy!” Moriarty turned to John, beaming, “What an unexpectedly pleasant surprise! What on earth are you doing here?”

“None of your business, Moriarty.”

“Oh, such lack of respect. You know, I can have you fired for talking to me like that?” Moriarty walked right up to John and looked him up and down. “Huh. Not much to look at, are you?”

“You can’t talk to him that way!” Sherlock couldn’t help himself.

“I can talk to him however I like, Locket. See, you all forget something. I _own_ Sherlock Holmes.” All pretence of affability dropped and Moriarty’s demeanour changed and his hand on Sherlock’s tightened painfully, “His coat has been discarded, destroyed, and his pelt is mine! I own him, and you can’t stop me!”

“Sherlock!” John got one hand free and reached for Sherlock right as Moriarty dragged him away.

“John!” He choked, reaching for his mate. He caught John’s hand and held on, “Don’t…don’t let him take me!”

“You’re coming with me, Sherlock Holmes, and none of your friends can stop me.”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock saw the horror in his brother’s eyes. How had Moriarty found him? How had he known? About halfway down the stairs, Sherlock lashed out at Moriarty, but that only got him cross-eyed when Moriarty struck him.

“John!” He yelled for his mate. A couple of Moriarty’s goons collected him from the bottom of the stairs and dragged him out of the house, fighting mad. The bodyguards and constables were helpless to do anything but stand by, held at bay by more goons. Then, behind Lestrade’s car, he spotted someone he knew. Donovan?

“You…traitor!” He tried to get at her, “You bitch! You sold me out! You don’t deserve your badge, Donovan, you deserve nothing! You worthless, selfish bitch! I hope you…you…”

“You get what you deserve, Holmes, and I can’t wait to watch you _suffer_.” She grinned at him, gleeful and hateful and Sherlock wanted to tear her throat out.

Suddenly, there was a crashing sound from inside the house and…dear gods, what was that noise? Sherlock saw something massive at the door, and whatever it was burst out of the house onto the pavement and lunged at Moriarty, who had no chance to defend himself. It looked like…a huge dog. But it was far too large to be any domestic breed, and he had never seen or heard of any Lycan that big. It was massive, with white fur and green-and-black sable. And none of the goons were brave enough, or stupid enough, to risk the jaws of the massive creature, so they kept their distance, weapons at the ready, despite the screaming of their wicked boss.

The creature turned from Moriarty, who lay still on the pavement, and Sherlock got a good look at its face. The muzzle was stained red with blood, which dripped from its jaws, and it’s eyes…dear god, he’d never seen eyes like that in any manner of hound, Fey or otherwise. They were bright blue and seemed without end, as if he could fall into them and never reach the bottom. Sherlock was reminded of ice, for some reason. The massive creature took out the goons holding Sherlock with two swipes of massive paws, one blow spun Sherlock off his feet and he tumbled. Rolling, he felt a sharp pain in his back a split second before his world narrowed, went dark, and then reoriented itself. It took a moment for him to recover and at first, he thought he’d gone blind, but he hadn’t. He was stuck under his own coat. He had Phased, likely out of panic, and gotten trapped. Tapping into his magic, he let go of the Glamour and felt himself growing. It hurt, it always did, but it wasn’t crippling. In no time, his coat slipped off and he found himself standing on all fours beneath the chest and belly of an enormous Cù-Sìth. But it wasn’t purebred. It was…Hybrid? He glanced up, a little intimidated by the sheer bulk of the massive hound. It lowered its head and he touched noses. That magic felt familiar and he blinked.

“John!” He squeaked. Was it really? Oh, his mate’s Other Form was more magnificent and more… _more_ than he’d imagined!

_Stay._ He heard that as clearly as if John had spoken to him aloud. “Stay, Sherlock! Let me handle this!”

“John, don’t…leave me!” He curled his long body around his mate’s paws, his tail curling around a hind leg, pushing his head up to touch the fur on John’s chest. The Cù-Sìth stood nearly seven feet tall, but Sherlock was half of that in his Other Form, he could only imagine the sight they made standing on Baker Street together. Taking care of Moriarty’s lot didn’t take very long, and it was only when Donovan screamed that he remembered she was even involved. She was backing away from John, but Sherlock got underfoot and tripped her with his tail. He was not sorry for it. In a heartbeat, John slammed a paw down on her and put his jaws around her. But it wasn’t a human he held, it was a Cat Sìth. Oh, of  _course,_ she was! That explained so much about her! And forgave absolutely nothing.

She fought dirty, which didn’t surprise Sherlock. The fight was brief and violent, and when John reeled back, claw-marks were clearly visible on his muzzle. Those would heal quickly, of course, but…Sherlock hissed and lunged. Between the two of them, they subdued Donovan. If she died, Sherlock had no regrets for her passing. The sound of bone snapping was what signalled the end, and the form between John’s jaws went limp. He dropped her in a heartbeat and shrank from full Cù-Sìth size to…well, Sherlock wasn’t certain what breed it was, but he thought John might have chosen a Utonagan. He let himself shrink as well and approached his mate as John collapsed on the pavement, nuzzling the damp fur. It wasn’t bloody anymore, but the injuries were still present. It smelled like John, and that was all that mattered to Sherlock.

“John?” He queried softly, “Are you…alright?”

“Next time I think it’s a good idea to go Hulk-smash on a bunch of goons, don’t let me.” John lifted his head and groaned, “Ugh. I feel terrible.”

“You’re going to need tending to, I’m afraid.” He licked at John’s wounds, which his mate allowed him to do.

“Ouch! Watch it!” John yelped when he got a little carried away in one spot.

“Oh, stop it, you big baby.” Sherlock returned to tending John’s wounds, “But if I’m coughing up hairballs for the next two weeks after this, I hold you responsible.”

“Can’t say you wouldn’t deserve it, you git.” John said blithely, twitching every now and then.

“Oi.” He bit gently on John’s left ear to scold him. The body under his paws trembled and he realized John was laughing.

\---

While he was busy grooming John, the rest of Lestrade’s team arrived, bringing with them the coroners’ van and an ambulance. Sherlock watched things unfold from his perch on John’s back, while John lay curled up by the front door of Baker Street, and when he was aware of someone picking him up, he almost bit them before he realized it was just his brother.

“Don’t you dare bite me, Sherlock.”

“Oh, you’d deserve it! And Mummy would laugh at you for it, too, you know she would.” He said indignantly. “I don’t like being _carried_ , Mycroft!”

“Well, my dear, it’s for your own good this time.” His brother chuckled and carried him to the ambulance, setting him down on the gurney before laying the Belstaff over him. Phase-back to human form was brief but painful and once he was sitting upright, Sherlock pulled his coat around him like a blanket. His head was spinning and his mouth had a disgusting metallic taste.

“Where’s John?”

“I’m right here, Sherlock.” That voice, though familiar, came from a very unusual source. John hadn’t Phased back yet and hopped up into the ambulance still in Lycan form.

“John.” He held out his hand to his mate, marvelling at the colouring of his pelt, which he had seen only very briefly. The fur was soft under his fingers and he discovered that John liked being scratched behind the ears. He was careful of the wounds, but John didn’t mind being handled. Leaning down, he kissed John on the forehead, stop, and muzzle. And John let him.

“What are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” He stroked the soft fur, marvelling at the colour, the blend of white, black, and green.

“Standard Cù-Sìth in Other Form, Glamoured Other is a, um, Utonagan.”

“Ah! I knew it!” Sherlock chuckled and took John’s parka and a shock blanket from one of the paramedics while his mate got up on the gurney beside him. Wrapping the blanket around John’s lower body, his hindquarters primarily, Sherlock draped the coat around him and pulled the hood up to cover his head. Watching him Phase was…interesting. There was a ripple of Glamour and the sound of a body shifting shape and bones settling into different arrangements. But it wasn’t long before John sat beside him in human form once again, wrapped in the shock blanket and his parka. Some adjusting got the blanket tied around his waist so it wouldn’t fall off and bare him to the world, and Sherlock helped him to zip the parka up when his fingers wouldn’t stop shaking once they had both been cleared.

Lighting from the ambulance, Sherlock took John’s hand in his and looked around. The street was still full of Met cars and uniformed personnel, he spotted Mycroft, Lestrade, and Alexandra standing by the open door of 221B. Going inside, he led John upstairs. But they didn’t do anything more than shower and find clean clothes before going back downstairs. Mrs Hudson was waiting for them, she looked worried and disappointed. But not with them.

“How long will you be gone, Sherlock?”

“At minimum a week.” He sighed and fussed with his coat, “I really have no idea, Mrs Hudson. That’s completely up to Sergeant Watson, and she is not the sort of woman to be disobeyed or underestimated.”

“No, I don’t suppose she would be.” Mrs Hudson shrugged, “I do like her, so she is quite welcome to come back any time.”

“I suspect, Mrs Hudson, that my mother would be delighted to visit Baker Street again.” John just smiled as he buttoned up his parka, brushing off the left sleeve. “So you may very well get your wish.”

“Oh, I thought so! I thought it might be that!” Mrs Hudson just smiled and hugged them both, being careful of the fact that John had been hurt. “You boys just take care of yourself, and each other. I’ll have Baker Street for you when you come home.”

“Thank you so much, Mrs Hudson.” John smiled at the kind woman who, despite not having a drop of magic in her own blood, had never judged or troubled Sherlock for his. And was ready to open her home and her affections to John as well if he sought either of those things. Sherlock kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek and thanked her for being so understanding, and so supportive.

“Well, someone’s got to look after you boys, and you won’t be arsed to do it yourselves! Might as well be me!” She just smiled and patted John on the cheek, “You’re a good boy, John Watson. You look after this one, he’s stubborn.”

“I can handle stubborn, Mrs Hudson. Twenty years in the army, five of that with Intelligence, I think I can handle Sherlock Holmes just fine.” John shrugged, letting her dote on him a bit. She fussed with his coat, paying attention to the pelt lining his hood.

“Oh, this is lovely. Such pretty colouring. I didn’t expect you to be so large, though.”

“I’m a Hybrid, Mrs Hudson, I’ve got Cù-Sìth in me. We’re a big breed by default.”

“And the rest of you?”

“Lycan.”

“Well, it’s a beautiful pelt. Take care of it.” She smoothed the ruffled fur with careful fingers and did the same to his hair, unable to help herself, apparently. “There, all properly settled. You boys get on your way and be safe.”

“We will, Mrs Hudson. Thank you for everything.” He smiled and took Sherlock’s hand, heading for the waiting car that would take them...wherever they were going until further notice. His brother’s driver held the door for them and closed it once they were in. Sherlock knew better than to ask where they were going, he would find out soon enough.

The drive from Baker Street to their destination was quiet and Sherlock stroked the back of John’s hand, unwilling to demand more from his mate.

“Are you...are you okay, John?”

“I’m fine, Sherlock.” John looked at him, obviously not completely fine. “I promise.”

“I don’t believe you. Donovan was out for blood.”

“That wasn’t the first time I’ve faced off against a Cat Sìth. It won’t be the last.”

“You didn’t have to do that, John, you didn’t have to...you could have been more seriously injured or killed.”

“And no use to anyone?”

“No.” He turned John’s hand over and lifted it, “Please, John.”

“That goes both ways, Sherlock.”

“I make no promises.”

“Then neither do I. Just...try not to get into trouble when I’m not around to help you?”

“I will do my best.” He smiled and pressed a kiss the back of John’s hand. And wondered, still, what on earth he had been doing working at a place like Quo Vadis? Well, whatever else, he would make absolutely certain that John never had to work like that ever again. He wanted to make his consulting firm into a proper business, and for that, he needed a partner. John would be ideal, with his varied background and skills. Sherlock would look into the logistics involved while they were gone, do the finances and such that it would take to convert 221C into an office, keep 221B separate. But that could wait.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> “Oops, dropped your coat!” You cheerfully pick up the soft fur coat off the floor and carefully drape it back over the person’s chair. They stare at you with wide, stunned eyes. They’re remarkably attractive. You awkwardly wave at them and go sit down at your table. They’re a selkie, you “gave” them back their coat, you now have a gorgeous and besotted selkie spouse. Hey, they don’t make the rules.
> 
> The next day, the attractive person you met shyly approaches you and gives you a little box with a ring inside. You blush, a little confused, and stare at them.  
> “I…Isn’t this…an engagement ring?”  
> “Well…We…We should get married by human customs as well.”  
> “…What?”


End file.
